Finding the Body

Last week, S helped create the space in our schedule for me to go to a yoga class at our local studio.  It's a wonderful, healing space, but I haven't made the time to visit since, well, the day before little Peanut was born.  After many, many months of not doing any exercise whatsoever (since my third trimester, in fact), my body was feeling neglected, my muscles were simultaneously wound up and lethargic, and the opportunity to breathe and move with intention just sounded really, really good.  Necessary, in fact. 

So I went.  There were just three other people in the class with me (which, I have to say, because I live in a city with a few too many million people in a very small geographic space, felt like such a gift).  The teacher was kind and welcoming, and walked us through the class with exactly the kind of guided imagery that is helpful to me ("feel your feet solidly on the ground, imagine them connected to a root system, pulling you firmly into the earth.")  By the time we arrived at our last sitting poses, I was feeling more limber, relaxed, strong.  I followed the instructions to pull our legs towards us, feet together in a butterfly position.  "Inhale, and bend your body forward over your legs."

So I did.  I sat on my little blue mat in the warm, dimly lit room, and I breathed.  I inhaled, exhaled, and stared at the space between my bent legs, the diamond they created on the floor.  I inhaled, exhaled, and and felt myself overcome with un/expected feelings.  There I was, seven months later, pouring energy into the space from which little Peanut came forth.  There was so. much. emotion. in that space.  My eyes filled with tears.  Many many tears.  What suddenly emerged from that little blue diamond was grief.

Before I was consumed into the impending swirl of mind/body processing, the teacher asked us to stretch out our legs and move them around.  I shook the Feelings out and brought myself back to the four green walls and pale wood floors.  I finished the class and walked home in the dark, warm night.  As I thought back to that moment, the tears came again, and held themselves at bay, right in my throat.

Grief.  Grief.  Grief.  The word echoed in my mind, over and over again.  I asked myself, "why Grief?" 

My emotional mind answered, "Grief, because what I went through in childbirth was hard.  Really hard."
The rational mind countered, "But your delivery experience wasn't extraordinary.  It was within the range of normal.  Manageable.  Everyday.  No big deal."
Emotional: "Grief, because I had an epidural, and I didn't actually feel what was going on.  Because I was a passive participant in my childbirth experience.  Because they cut me open."
Rational: "But that was okay, you did what you needed to do to get through."
Emotional: "Grief, because I haven't been able to reconnect with that part of my body since giving birth."
Rational: "Yeah, that's pretty f'ed up.  Get over your damn fear!  Find pleasure again!"
Emotional:  "Grief, because I'm really, really scared of the depth of emotion that is contained within my body.  Grief, because I went through a physical trauma.  Grief, because I didn't see the aftermath, didn't want to look at my scars.  Grief, because the act of creating a very small space between my legs feels like too much.  Grief, because I want to just cry, and cry, and cry."

And then I was home.  I neatly put the cork back in my emotional mind, pulled the keys out of my purse, and walked into my building.  And made a silent commitment to go back to class again next week.